the past isn’t for burning after all
she tells herself, as long as you don’t
let it burn you. but her chest tightens
around her heart, woollen and warm
while the downhill flow of a street she
never forgot, not in all these years,
takes her around a corner, over a foot
bridge to the cafe with its little metal
teapots, still the same as ever before
where she buys ice creams for three
little boys, eight nine and ten. and this
she tells herself, is how you rearrange
the fire, how you temper the flames.
I’m certain this is unfinished. But again, I am catching up, and what’s NaPoWriMo if not a time for drafting new things?